


Survive

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Number The Stars [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: Thoughtcrimes/any, Freya McAllister, sometimes peeking into peoples minds without permission was a matter of survival. Freya in Afghanistan. References to SGA episode Phantoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survive

She'd been practicing for so long, so hard, five years of keeping it together, keeping her mind to herself, but she needed help, and she needed it now, because if she didn't get shelter or food or water soon, she was going to die in this desert. She'd broken out her gift on more than one occasion when her consulting on a case with Charlie and FBI nearly got her killed, and every time her handlers had cracked down her.  
  
Her handlers were nowhere near now, and if she died, this operation would go sideways.  
  
If she died, Brendan would never forgive himself.  
  
The worst part of being around dead bodies was looking at them and hearing nothing. It was horrible. Like television screens frozen on a single frame and on mute. But if Freya wanted to survive, she had to improvise. So she used some of the blankets from the downed chopper to fashion a head-covering, used a bandanna to cover her mouth. She knew she was streaked with dirt, had been crying, she looked awful. She could garner some sympathy.  
  
She used the sight on one of the rifles that wasn't damaged to scout her surroundings, waiting for even a single buzz of human thought. There. North-east. Away from the worst of the heat. Good.  
  
Freya rounded up all the water canteens she could find, emptied the soldiers' tac vests of their power bars and other useful supplies, crying the entire time. She stuffed her supplies into a t-shirt she'd tied in knots at one end, and she started to walk, occasionally checking the scope to make sure she was headed in the right direction.  
  
She understood enough Pashto that she could get by, because people's thoughts were in their own languages. Whenever a local had thoughts in English, more English than they let on they knew, she was always wary, but she'd have given anything for comforting words in English right then.  
  
Her ruse worked. She pretended she was mute, and the women took pity on her, led her into the shade of their tent, gave her water and food, let her sleep. But she didn't really sleep. She kept her bundled t-shirt close, and she kept her eyes half-open, and she watched everyone around her, listening for key-words, for anything.  
  
And she heard the men think _American!_ and she tensed, because she'd been made, but they scooped up their guns and they charged across the desert, and Freya knew.  
  
Help was on its way.  
  
So she ran to help. The women shrieked after her, because she didn't care. When she finally caught up to the men, they were all dead, and Brendan was standing there, sunburned and wind blown and ashen-faced.  
  
"Shep!" She went to embrace him. He responded woodenly. She pulled back, searched his face, but didn't touch his thoughts. "Where are the others? Dex? Holland? Mitch?"  
  
He shook his head, swallowed hard. Then he lifted his radio. "Arclight, this is Roundhouse Zero Six. Do you read?"


End file.
